Periods of Wakefulness
by When The Sun Goes Down
Summary: Tom Riddle x Harry Potter. Takes place technically during DH. Harry's POV. "When you have insomnia, you're never really asleep... and you're never really awake." R & R plez!XD


**Periods of Wakefulness**

By: When The Sun Goes Down

Disclaimer: I don't own HP, a line from HBP (Book. But it's also a well known HPverse fact), a line from GOF which was written by Steve Kloves or Fight Club.

Warnings: swearing, sexual content, slash, ambiguous consent, experimental writing, and some OCC-ness.

Summary: Tom Riddle x Harry Potter. Takes place technically during DH. (You'll see what I mean.) Harry's POV. "When you have insomnia, you're never really asleep... and you're never really awake."

A/N: Hey, it's me again. This story was inspired by my own unhealthy sleep patterns, The Social Network soundtrack which I have been falling asleep to almost every night (I'm soooo happy Trent Reznor won an Oscar for it! He is so amazing! If anything were to ever happen to Mariqueen Maandig's ovaries I would totally give them my eggs! It's not like I'm ever gonna be using them to make babies. I intend to adopt children in the future.) and Fight Club again (I used a quote from the book in my Doctor Who fanfic You Need Me More Than I Need You). The italics are there to help you understand who's who's and don't worry, if you're confused by this story that is how you're supposed to feel and it means I did what I set out to do. Also, this story is dedicated to Flayu since her birthday was on May 1st! I'm soo sorry I didn't post it sooner! She is an amazing artist whose artwork continues to confound and astound me…and make me squeal with joy. Lol. She has also drawn a picture for my story The Game, the link to that and her deviant art account are on my profile page. This is for you girl! Happy Birthday! R & R plez! XD

He awakens to the sound of a tap dripping. His alarm clock says 2:30 a.m. He wants to turn off the tap but he can't because there's something on his chest. A weight. An oppressive weight. He glances down and realizes that- no he can't be awake because _**he's**_ here. The weight shifts slightly and mumbles something. He has to be dreaming because _he's_ dead. Because _he _**isn't real** and because whatever has or is about to happen is not safe. He needs to wake up. He has to before…before **it **notices. He bites down on his lip and prays to any and every god that it'll work. He keeps biting until- Wood. The wood of the top bunk above him. Comforting, familiar, normal. (Something he's wanted all his life but learned to never expect.) Sounds. Ron's snoring, the crackling of a fire, the page of Hermione's book being turned. Not whispers, not words that sting and stab at his heart; that spread their poison through his mind. Venom. Infecting him. Licking at his veins like fire. Watching _him_ lick at his-no don't think, just breathe. Don't focus, just exist.

Days. Days of walking, eating, thinking, and watching. Constantly moving. Only staying in the same place for a night or two. Forever changing. Nothing stays the same. Everything is impermanent. _"Everything's going to change now, isn't it?" _He wants to tell Hermione that she has no idea how right she was back then. Three years. That's all it took, for his life to become _**this**_. A race to the finish line without knowing quite where it is. Or _when_ he'll find it.

Nights. Nights spent shivering outside the tent forcing himself to stay awake and not just because he needs to keep watch. Inside his bed; under the covers. His body craving sleep but still trying to keep it at bay. _In that place_. His mind being torn open and another's thrusting in. The penetration a pain and pleasure. Feels so real (_so good_) that sometimes he wakes up sore. But no, he must have just slept wrong. Because what _he_ does isn't real.

Magic always leaves traces. He wonders if Ron and Hermione can see all the bruises, bite marks and scratches that _he's_ left on his skin; that he can still feel even days afterwards. He can't see them either but they hurt when he touches them. The scrapes on his knees that sting when he washes them, the lines of bruises on his hips that -if he could see them- would look like fingers, the bite mark on his chest directly over his heart that moves when he stretches. Attempting to eat away at him each time he does so as though _he_ was trying to devour him. In a way _he_ already has. But the things he _**can**_ see are the blood vessels that break and draw random mismatched patterns across his eyes, the accompanying bags beneath them, the way he moves as though wading through water, the shadows that twist and blur in the corners of his eyes that he hopes- _really hopes_- are just his imagination.

It took them awhile but they've begun to notice it. They see his eyes, the way he walks, the way he's always looking over his shoulder, how he flinches when they surprise him or try to touch him. But they have bloodshot eyes and bags that match his own, but his are worse. So much worse, than theirs. And so they worry. More than usual of course. He can see it in the way they go off for walks alone, the way they fall silent sometimes when he goes to join them, the way they look at him and speak in low voices. It's written all over their faces and they try to talk to him about it. Merlin knows they try. But he brushes them off every time and insists that it's just the same old visions, same old dreams and the same old prickling feeling in his scar. Same old hissing, hissing, hissing inside his head.

In the few months that they've had it, the locket has begun to leave a distinct impact on his body and soul. It affects them too. They feel its dark negative energy and don't enjoy wearing it either. But it's not the same for them. They don't see visions more clearly, dream more vividly, feel more **filthy** than he does when he wears it. They don't wake up with the imprint of a chain around their necks; staring back at them in the mirror each day. The line becomes darker; day by day, night after night and he thinks he knows what it means. It's trying to strangle him. Slowly, ever so slowly trying to squeeze the life out of him and there are some days that he wishes that it would. When he does go to bed wearing it at night he has to watch it. He doesn't want it down his pyjama top lying too close to his heart. He places it on the pillow beside his head and stares at it until…until…until…..

"You're awake. Certainly took you long enough." He opens his eyes and blinks as he looks around, trying to take in his surroundings. The room is awash in a grey-blue light and all of the colours look faded. The sheets on the bed, the night table that has the alarm clock on it with its little glowing red numbers (11:30 p.m. it says), the large wardrobe, the occasional drip, drip, drip from the far away tap, the light that slants in through the blinds from the streetlamps outside. All of it is confusing and yet familiar at the same time. Because he's been here far too many times before. He turns his head to the side and sees _him_. As handsome as _he_ was when he first saw _him_ five years before, but slightly older. More mature and still as confident as ever.

_He_ is also naked and in this moment he realizes that he is too. _He _smiles and leans towards him and all he can do is watch as _he_ presses _his_ lips against his. After a moment he tries to turn his head away, but _he _grabs him by the hair on either side of his skull and quickly shoves _his_ body on top of him. A heavy weight. Holding him down, forcing him down, preventing him from ever getting away. _He_ pries his mouth open with his tongue and thrusts _his_ way inside. The kiss is full of hunger and need, and he feels powerless to stop it. Hands trail down his body and he can feel them massaging, pinching, and scratching at him as they go. They reach their destination and begin to stroke and squeeze him into hardness. His body responds to the attention being given to it and –not for the first time- he feels regretful. _He_ nips _his_ way down to his throat and he gasps as _he_ bites down with _his_ fang like teeth. "Come now Harry, I thought you enjoyed that." _He_ continues to bite and suck on his neck with the full intention of leaving bruises that'll take days to fade.

"I don't…"

"Liar."

_He_ slides down his chest, stopping to bite at his nipples and continue making the dark hole over his heart even wider. "You know I really don't understand how you haven't figured this all out by now. But I suppose it's more fun for me this way, isn't it?" The smile that _he_ gives him makes him shudder and he can see the cruelty lurking behind the mask of happiness. _He_ reaches his belly button and moves _his_ tongue in and out suggestively; telling him what he already knows is going to happen next. "It's just you now. You're little friends are already gone and a lot of the others are too. It's a shame I didn't get to see all of them leave; I really do love a good show. But you were there. Didn't you see all of the little lights fade from their eyes? Do you remember? Don't you remember anything at all?"

"I don't…what are you..." He moans as that slick serpentine tongue licks at his cock and curls itself around the head. _He_ sucks the head into _his_ mouth and begins taking him in. Inch by inch. _Hiss, hiss, hiss._ "Fuck.…" It's barely a whisper but _he_ still hears it all the same and lightly grazes _his_ teeth over it while _he_ smiles around the length in _his_ mouth. _He_ bobs _his_ head and begins to hum a tune that sounds vaguely like God Save the Queen. He closes his eyes and fists the sheets as _he_ flicks _his_ tongue along the slit. He can feel the pressure building within him as _he_ continues devour him. Over and over and over again. And he's close, sooo close he can feel the spring within his body begin to unwind and…But then _he_ stops and squeezes his shaft to keep him from coming.

"Not yet. And I suppose it's all for the best. Besides this way you're all mine now, to do with as I please."

With _his_ left hand still painfully squeezing his cock, _he_ leans forward and places two fingers in front of his mouth. "Suck." He obediently starts sucking and _he_ groans as _he_ watches them slide in and out of his mouth. _He's_ hard and he'd be wondering how it was ever going to fit, if this hadn't already happened before. The digits are removed from his mouth and _he_ slides back down to the area that is craving _his_ attention. They slowly begin to probe and massage his hole, before thrusting in as far as they can go. He whimpers and tries to wiggle away from the scissoring, stretching, searching fingers; but _he_ rubs _his_ thumb across the head of his cock and that stops any and all efforts on his part to run away. It doesn't take _him _very long to find his prostate and when _he_ does his toes curl and he moans _his_ name. "Tom…" "Say it again. Louder." _He_ brushes the spot once more and he complies. "Tom!" _He_ bites _his_ lip and rubs it a couple more times as he writhes on the bed. Slowly, they leave his body only to be replaced by the feeling of the tip of _his_ erection. _He_ positions _himself_ at his entrance and looks back up at his face, tilting _his _head to the side and says:

"You know, I do get so lonely when you're asleep and you always take forever to wake up. But then again we have forever, so I suppose it doesn't really matter."

And with that _he_ thrusts all the way inside of him. He lets out a strangled cry and tenses his entire body until it becomes one taut string. _He_ hisses, like the snake _he_ really is and grabs on to his hips to steady _himself_. _He_ leans down until they're chest-to-chest and mumbles something like "So fucking tight", into the crook of his neck. _He_ doesn't give him time to adjust to the feeling of _his_ cock inside of him (_because by now he shouldn't_ _have to_) and starts moving in and out at an even and steady pace.

Obscenities and moans fill the air as _he_ continues to fuck him into the mattress. _He_ grips his legs and wraps them tightly around _his_ body. He's keening now as _his_ thrusts become harsher and more violent; so puts his arms gingerly around _his_ neck. As though he's not sure whether he's allowed to, but _he_ doesn't seem to mind for once. _He's_ still mumbling, rambling on and on; and occasionally he can catch a word or two. "Fuck…Harry…So good….so tight….bloody hell…you're…mmm…so close…" The pressure is building back up to a crescendo again and it feels so good (_so real_), that he knows that he won't last much longer. _His _hand comes in between them and begins to stroke him in time to _his_ thrusts. Their movement becomes more erratic and he moans _his_ name once more before he closes his eyes and screams. He comes all over their chests and clenches hard around _him_. _He_ thrusts in two more times before stifling _his_ moan by biting into his neck as _his_ hot seed fills his insides. The only sounds that can be heard are their breathing and ever persistent drip, drip, drip of the tap.

After a few minutes _he_ pulls out and lies down beside him; props _his_ head in _his_ hand and begins drawing patterns that feel like hearts and snakes on his chest. He's sore all over and he doesn't really feel like basking in the afterglow with _**him**_. He tries to get up but is held down by a firm hand on his chest. "Stay."

"I…can't. This isn't…I'm dreaming it's probably already morning…I need to… go."

"But you're not. And it isn't, it's midnight. Where would you have to go?"

"What? What do you mean I'm not?"

"I thought you would have understood by now how this works but I guess not."

"What? What are you talking about? I…this…just shut up. I need to…"

He doesn't understand and nothing- least of all _him- _makes any sense. He's dreaming, none of that or this is really happening. It didn't happen. He didn't really have…It didn't happen. It never actually happened before either. (_**Didn't, didn't, didn't.**_)

"Oh, but it did."

_Block him out, he's not really there._ He closes his eyes and attempts to concentrate, but _his_ hand is on his chest and now it's moving slowly downwards as he hears _him_ sit up. He clenches his hands into fists, digs his fingernails into his palms and bites down so hard on his lip that it bleeds instantly. **Wake up! **Nothing. No sudden shift in temperature, no new noises, no new smells or different sheets. Absolutely **nothing** has changed.

He opens his eyes reluctantly and looks up._He_ smiles and looks down at him as he tries to move away. He could cry but he doesn't want to do that in front of _him_. Not now, not ever. Because he has to wake up, because he _**needs**_ to wake up, because this isn't happening (_can't be, can't be, can't be_) and he isn't supposed to be here. Because this isn't how it's supposed to end.

Because….

Tom Riddle was more than just a memory, less than just a dream.

"It's not all in your head Harry….it's real."

THE END?


End file.
